


Taking Stock (the Puppy Fat Remix)

by skoosiepants



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-06
Updated: 2006-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Rodney concentrated very hard on the man's ass, he occasionally forgot that they were stuck on what was essentially an enormous free-range chicken farm for the Wraith with a limited supply of coffee and pudding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Stock (the Puppy Fat Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Taking Stock](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/11060) by Icarus. 



It didn't actually hit Rodney that there was a high probability he was going to be stranded in another galaxy for some time – possibly the rest of his life – until two days before the expedition was set to step through the event horizon, and the little Czech, Zelenka, found him breathing into a paper bag in the far corner of his office, clutching the tail end of a Ho Ho, with a wild, pinched expression on his face.  
  
He babbled in a painfully stuttering voice for five minutes about the unparalleled merits of cream-filled chocolate snacks, and then Dr. Zelenka casually mentioned false-bottomed luggage and Rodney's eyes lit up when he recalled that the SGC sergeant in charge of what passed for off-world customs was completely terrified of him.   
  
They exchanged silent meaningful looks in deference to security, and Rodney called a super secret meeting for all the scientists on his team, and he doled out detailed lists of who was to bring what and how much and all the myriad ways Rodney would make them pay if they didn't do exactly as instructed.  
  
*  
  
  
Rodney had what he liked to call "survival fat," carefully layered by years of sedentary living in frigid climates. And his relatively brief sojourn at Area 51, while unpleasantly hot, hadn't done much to help, since the only thing any of them ever did besides standing and sitting and then sitting some more was play ping-pong, and Rodney'd run out of willing partners and opponents long before Siberia.   
  
He'd had a problem gripping the paddle tight enough when faced with colleagues who made incredibly stupid fumbles on a daily basis. The infirmary had always been busy on tournament days.  
  
So their fitness program hadn't exactly been topnotch, but it didn't really matter, since Rodney was a _scientist_ spending most of his day in a _lab_ on a _stool_ , and beyond Carson's harping about his health and his eating habits and his hypertension – which was useless gum flapping on Carson's part, since it was physically impossible for Rodney to cut down on his coffee intake and he couldn't imagine a world without processed cheese, and if there ever was one he wouldn't want to live there - there wasn't much of a reason for him to be fast or agile or remotely good at handling a weapon.  
  
Until they woke up the Wraith, of course.  
  
*  
  
Rodney mostly blamed Sumner, because he was, well, dead.   
  
And also because, oh yes, he'd been an _idiot_ who apparently thought bringing AT-4s – which were, he gathered from Sheppard, like large, lethal disposable cameras – on a one-way trip to another galaxy was a _good idea_. Not that they'd had any inkling of space vampires at that point, true, but over-preparing for the unknown was always a plus in Rodney's book, especially if that unknown was feasibly rife with the same sort of shit SGC teams encountered on routine missions in the Milky Way.  
  
Elizabeth, he knew, had been overly optimistic about the whole trip, and probably would've brought baskets of wine and cheese and puppies to spread around with Earthly goodwill if she'd had her druthers. At least they _had_ an arsenal.  
  
So. There were a few, abysmally few, things to be thankful for, not the least of them being the very pretty Major John Sheppard, who seemed to have a decent brain under all that hair. And if Rodney concentrated very hard on the man's ass, he occasionally forgot that they were stuck on what was essentially an enormous free-range chicken farm for the Wraith with a limited supply of coffee and pudding.   
  
*  
  
The day Major Sheppard asked Rodney to be on his off-world team was the same day he pointed out the extended uselessness of the AT-4s, and the same day he eyed Rodney up and down like a particularly delicious treat. A marshmallow, apparently, if his comments about physical regimens were anything to go by.  
  
It was just too bad the SGC hadn't approved his Atlantis requisition form for the Olympic grade ping-pong table. Sheppard wouldn't look half so smug with a dent in his hair from Rodney's delinquent paddle.  
  
Of course, it didn't matter that his time was too valuable to waste going off-world, since they were basically faced with two options now that the Wraith were awake and feasting and Atlantis was working off the bare minimum of power: a) acquire a charged ZedPM, or b) die. Either from a complete system failure on Atlantis or from a mass culling-slash-attack by the Wraith. Both ways spelled fun.  
  
When Elizabeth arched her diplomatic eyebrow at him, Rodney snapped, "I could teach a monkey to find ZedPMs," because monkeys had to be at least ten times more intelligent than the bumblefucks masquerading as scientists in his labs, except they didn't actually have any monkeys on Atlantis – an oversight? - and he had even less time to teach one. Although, really, moot point.   
  
So, essentially, Elizabeth was right when she said that traveling through the 'gate himself would, in the end, save everyone – Rodney – time and headaches. Unless he ended up dead.  
  
Which brought him to Major Sheppard's evil, assessing gaze.  
  
Handling a nine mil, fine. He could do that. He wasn't happy about it, but if he was going to be forced into exploring alien worlds, he'd rather be armed than not. And he'd rather not risk shooting himself or a team member by accident if it came down to using it, so he'd subject himself to lessons, sparing his precious time. That was just simple common sense. _But_.   
  
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Sheppard. "What is this? _China_? We're going to do our joyous morning calisthenics before we ride our bikes to work for the good of The People's Republic of Atlantis?"   
  
"It's just a daily jog, McKay," Sheppard coaxed, lips curled up in a mocking smirk.   
  
Rodney wasn't about to let a skinny flyboy pressure him into godawful exercise, though, just because of some preconceived notion of what was and was not a healthy figure, no matter what policies Elizabeth endorsed. They couldn't actually _make_ him do anything.   
  
But his strident, "I'm allergic to sweat," was met by a drawling, "I can see why you'd think that," and they were left staring at each other, Rodney pissed and fidgeting and Sheppard so amused his hazel eyes were nearly sparkling, and _just wait_.  
  
You didn't mess with scientists.   
  
Rodney's team – who were much, much less intelligent than Rodney himself, obviously (re: monkeys), but nevertheless far cleverer than everyday military grunts - had their fingers in every pie on Atlantis, including the coveted black market – Zelenka, strangely enough, was the unmitigated ruler of the underground - and there was no way they'd let Sheppard get away with instituting a physical fitness program that possibly involved _running_.   
  
Except for perhaps the botanists. Botanists had odd, cheerful ideas. Rodney thought they were more than a little creepy.  
  
Rodney's huffy silence said, "You'll have to drag me kicking and screaming," and his glower dared Sheppard to try it. They'd recently nailed down all the little nuances of Atlantis' climate controls in the active living areas. Cold showers and stifling, sweltering nights were going to be very much a part of the major's future if he didn't back off.   
  
Rodney lifted an imperious you-shall-rue-the-day! finger before stalking away.   
  
*  
  
Rodney really hadn't expected the major to push the issue, but Sheppard was practically vibrating with leashed energy when he opened his door the next morning.  
  
"This is not a good idea, Major," Rodney snapped.  
  
"Policy, policy," Sheppard sing-songed. Then, almost an afterthought, "I can shoot you."  
  
"You can't shoot me, you dolt."  
  
"Hey," he held his hands up, "you're the one who was all for comparing us to China."  
  
"They don't _shoot_ —"  
  
"How do you know?" He waggled his brows suggestively.  
  
Rodney pulled his lips down into a lopsided scowl. It was like trying to talk sense to a particularly hyper child.  
  
"A little run, some mat time at the gym, and then this afternoon we'll requisition you your own gun. You can even name it." Sheppard nodded earnestly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes and stifled a yawn. "This is where I explain, Sheppard, that what I meant by 'not a good idea,' was that if you press this," he pointedly raked his gaze down the major's running attire, sticking for a moment on his surprisingly knobby – yet unfortunately no less attractive – knees, "I'll be forced to make you pay. And if you have any questions about what that entails, you should go find Dr. Kavanagh."  
  
Even the name boiled Rodney's blood. Imagine purposefully forgetting to pack the four hundred and fifty Pixy Stix he'd been assigned. He apparently didn't possess any survival instincts at all.   
  
"I'd also advise against placing that man on any off-world teams," Rodney added with a frown.   
  
"Duly noted, McKay," Sheppard drawled, eyebrows peaked over his nose, as if he wasn't quite sure whether or not to take Rodney seriously.   
  
Mistake number one.  
  
"Come on," Sheppard tilted his head and grinned winningly, "let's go run off some of that puppy fat."  
  
Mistake number two.   
  
Rodney's chin shot up indignantly. "You see, just before, what I said about pressing? This," he jabbed a finger into Sheppard's chest, "is pressing."  
  
The major's lazy grin didn't falter, and Rodney just barely refrained from grandly stating 'this means war!' before slamming the door shut in this face.   
  
And then he promptly reopened it, because he was in dire need of coffee and breakfast and he had Very Important Work to do that did not involve Major Sheppard and his bare, hairy limbs – seriously, why couldn't that be a turn off? – so he pushed past Sheppard and ignored the man's overt amusement, filing away his chuckle in the Even More Reasons To Make Sheppard Pay, Part VI sect of his mind.  
  
*  
  
The kitchens on Atlantis were big, and no one normally liked Rodney – they occasionally pretended to, but Rodney was well attuned to bullshit and ass-kissing and pretty soon no one even bothered - except Sergeant Danvers really seemed to honestly like him for some reason – Rodney suspected it was his vocal and glowing appreciation for all things edible - so he turned a blind eye when Rodney spent a great deal of his free time in the pantries counting and recounting boxes of MREs and powdered milk and Snack Packs and potatoes, pulling out his lists periodically just to reassure himself that Miko still had ten pounds of Polly-o string cheese hidden in her laptop case and that Simpson was armed with seventeen sealed containers of hot chocolate mix.  
  
Although Rodney didn't actually _have_ very much free time, what with saving the lives of every single person on Atlantis at least once a day and dodging the considerably tiring advances of Major Sheppard. And, yes, Rodney wouldn't be half so adamant about dodging the man if his advances had less to do with exercise and more to do with, well... anything sexual.  
  
He was easy. He wasn't going to bother wasting time quibbling about it. And he was starting to have weird, disturbing nightmares featuring Sheppard in a gorilla suit, chasing him through Atlantis with a leopard print leotard in his hands and shouting, 'But, McKay! We'll match!'   
  
"More inventory checks, Dr. McKay?" Danvers asked, head craning around a stack of crates labeled 'flour.'  
  
"Ah, yes," Rodney agreed, nodding, because he couldn't very well say he was hiding from the sergeant's crazed commanding officer. Never mind the fact that he was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop on his knees, desalination specs spread out around him.  
  
Danvers quirked a smile. "I'll leave you to it, then. Oh, and," he'd disappeared, only to pop back around the corner, a finger raised, "Major Sheppard was looking for you."  
  
Rodney swallowed hard. "I see. And did you happen to mention I was back here?" he queried sharply.  
  
"Well now, Doctor." He winked at him. "I didn't know you were at the time, did I?"  
  
"Right." Rodney huffed and shuffled his papers together and snapped his laptop shut, struggling to his feet. "I should be, ah, leaving, anyhow." And it wasn't because he thought Danvers was lying, but Sheppard had this uncanny ability to—  
  
"McKay!"  
  
Rodney sagged back against the open box of three hundred and fifty two peanut butter power bars – all right, so he'd done a _little_ inventory that day – and gripped his laptop against his chest. "You are the most annoyingly persistent man I've ever met," he groused as the major materialized in front of him, an infuriatingly pleased smirk curling his mouth.  
  
"Did you know that Dr. Zelenka practically owns the southeast pier?" Sheppard asked bemusedly.  
  
Rodney blinked at the apparent non sequitur. "Yes. Yes, I did. Is that all, Major?"  
  
Sheppard ignored him, gaze wandering about the room. "So this is where you're always hiding out. Can't say I'm surprised."  
  
"Yes, of course," Rodney snapped, "because I'm a slightly chubby physicist and what else would I do with my free time but eat?"  
  
"You said it," the major countered, both brows arched.  
  
"Is there an actual _important_ reason you're back here?"  
  
"Nothing's more important than you, Rodney," Sheppard drawled, and Rodney narrowed his eyes.  
  
He knew very well, since so far only the scientists picked to go off-world were learning how to handle a handgun and none of them had been required to undergo additional physical training – although a few hours a week at the gym had been strongly _encouraged_ – that while verbally Elizabeth might have agreed with Sheppard, there was obviously no policy in place to back up his actions. And yet he continued to hound Rodney.  
  
Although, really, 'hound' was too strong a word. 'Pester' sounded more Sheppard's speed.  
  
Honestly, Rodney suspected the major just got extremely bored in between missions.  
  
With a soundless growl, Rodney pushed past Sheppard and stalked off towards his labs, and if Sheppard seemed a little wide-eyed and a little bruised that he'd brushed him off so quickly, well. It wasn't his job to entertain the man.   
  
*  
  
When Carson gave him the ATA gene therapy and it _worked_ , Rodney thought it was all worth it. Being stuck in another galaxy, being stalked by Sheppard, being almost completely out of the Pringles Svetlana had lined her trunk with. Granted, he'd thought that a time or two before, since it was _Atlantis_ , and he hadn't lost all perspective yet. But making things light up with his mind would never stop being cool.   
  
The city still loved Sheppard best, though, so when Rodney locked himself in his office it wasn't much of a barrier against the man. And a door that wouldn't open just because he'd strolled past? Well, Sheppard never met a semi-sentient city he couldn't charm, and there was no way the man could resist a challenge.  
  
"Look," Rodney held up one hand to forestall Sheppard's predictable 'join me in a gym and I'll give you a cookie' speech as the door slid open without even a faux protest for show, "I know this is somehow your version of a swirly—"  
  
"What?"  
  
"A swirly?" Rodney sighed impatiently. "You know, when—"  
  
"I know what a swirly is, McKay." Sheppard frowned. "You think wanting to set up a physical fitness regimen for you is the equivalent of high school torture?"  
  
"Of course it is! You're clearly threatened by my intellect, and thus feel the need to create ways in which _I'll_ look stupid—"  
  
"Whoa." Sheppard stepped further into the room, scowl forming across his forehead. "Hold it right there, McKay. I've given you a gun and let _Bates_ teach you how to use it—"  
  
"Which is so very enjoyable, by the way, thank you," Rodney cracked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
Sheppard glared at him. " _And_ ," he went on, "I'm trying my best to get you in shape, so whenever we encounter the Wraith you'll be somewhat better at running away. You've heard of the Wraith, right? Suck years off your life until you die?"  
  
"Please, like whatever you have planned is going to make any difference at all," Rodney scoffed.  
  
"It can't make things _worse_ , McKay."  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Says the man with the hairy knees."  
  
"That makes no sense!" Sheppard nearly yelped, and Rodney watched incredulously as the normally unruffled major tugged on the ends of his artfully messy hair, high color staining his cheeks.   
  
"Major—"  
  
"You know what? I give up." Sheppard deflated into the seat across from him and muttered, "This isn't fun anymore."  
  
"This was _never_ fun."  
  
Sheppard pouted. "Says you."  
  
"Petulant isn't a good look for you, Major," Rodney pointed out, but deep down he was a little... worried. He'd gotten used to Sheppard showing up everywhere he went, and while the prospect of ending the major's constant harassing was appealing, he couldn't help feel an unanticipated pang of loss.   
  
Which was ridiculous, of course, but he was a creature of habit, and if Sheppard didn't show up in his lab at least twice a morning on non-mission days his entire schedule was going to be thrown off – especially since Sheppard almost always brought coffee with him – and did he really want to reconfigure the little squares of time on his dry erase board?  
  
Also, there was probably a reason he'd never gotten around to booby-trapping Sheppard's quarters. Well, _serious_ booby-trapping, at any rate. The four days of piping Survivor's _Eye of the Tiger_ on a constant loop into his bathroom had just seemed to pump the man up, and the residual effect of him humming it everywhere he went was something that Rodney never wanted to live through again.   
  
"So." Rodney fiddled with a small Ancient object that'd been lying dormant on his desk. It vibrated against his palm. "From what I've been able to deduce, this is some sort of personal shield."  
  
The major perked up a bit. "Really?"  
  
Rodney nodded, watching Sheppard's expression carefully. "It renders the wearer invulnerable," he said, then affixed it to his chest, the vibration morphing into a buzz that spread out to cover his entire body. He'd already tried stabbing himself with a pen, but, "Want to shoot me in the leg and see what happens?"  
  
Sheppard snapped upright, boyish grin reflecting the excitement in his eyes. "Hell, yeah."  
  
And it was a slight shock for Rodney to realize that he probably would've been just fine on Atlantis without any of the extra dietary munitions he'd threatened his scientists into smuggling through the 'gate, so long as he could always make Sheppard grin like that.   
  
Although the ten pounds of coffee Radek'd sewn into the liner of his uniform jacket certainly didn’t hurt.


End file.
